


Fahrradsattel

by gubby



Series: The Thing but sexier [3]
Category: The Thing (1982)
Genre: Bathroom Sex, Collars, Condoms, F/M, Genital Piercing, Kinda, Light Dom/sub, Praise, Punk!Reader - Freeform, Reader-Insert, Reunions, Strangers to Lovers, Unsanitary, Vaginal Sex, dirt talk, just a lil, like really light, punk!Palmer, safe sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-17
Updated: 2021-01-14
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:42:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28122558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gubby/pseuds/gubby
Summary: You and Palmer, years ago during his punk phase, meet in a shitty underground show.
Relationships: Palmer (The Thing)/Reader
Series: The Thing but sexier [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2004778
Comments: 4
Kudos: 14





	1. Chapter 1

This has got to be the worst venue you’ve ever been in for a show. Smells like piss and vomit. Dark as all fuck. The entire floor is sticky. It’s so packed you feel every breath from the people around you. There’s more than one passed out person, some being cradled by a friend, and you’re not even sure if they’re alive. 

But damn if the music doesn’t absolutely fuck. 

These underground punk shows are the shittiest most hedonistic cesspools of debauchery and you’re a big fan. 

From across the crowd, you lock eyes with some piece of shit with a Mohawk and about a dozen facial piercings. He’s got a fucked up denim vest covered in patches, some you recognize, some you don’t. His eyeliner is so fucked it looks like it was physically slapped on his face. But damn if he doesn’t have a cute, evil smile. He’s transfixed by you in a pretty scary way, staring the entire time he wades through the sea of people. You like the way he’s shoving people to get to you, it kinda makes you want to run and hope he’ll chase after you. He’s lucky he’s tall, and boosted more by the platform on his chunky combat boots, or he would have lost you in the blink of an eye. He’s glad he let his friends talk him into the platforms. 

When he finally makes it to you, he’s surprised by the sweet look on your face. He can imagine you without all the makeup and accessories, in your daily life. You don’t have ‘fuck you’ plastered on your expression like most people here. You wouldn’t look out of place in a catholic school uniform. Or maybe he’s just letting his kinks get ahead of him. He can see the swell of your breasts beneath your mesh and croptop, and the plush of your thighs stretching your already distressed tights. 

If this were a bar, he’d sit next to you and order you another of whatever you were having, chat for a while before inviting you back to his place. 

But this isn’t a bar. This is a shitty dark basement in some unmaintained out-of-the-way building, and there are probably at least 20 other people here not-so-covertly fucking or jerking each other off. Maybe it’s not romance, but for Palmer, it’s something better. 

A hand, dressed in a studded, fingerless glove with chipped black nailpolish, comes up to caress your cheek and stroke through a strand of hair. The glove is pretty shitty, but well loved. The leather is peeling and you can feel warmth from him. You lean in, and he admires, before nodding his head and flicking his eyes towards the restroom door (what a gentleman!), signaling you. It’s not like either of you could talk productively with all the noise. You smile, and his hand trails from your cheek down your arm, grabbing tight onto your own hand. 

He’s back to shoving as you trail behind him, snarling at the people who look at him in offense. Most of them shrug it off though, especially once they see you on his arm. No one at these scenes wants to be a cockblock. Plus, you may or may not be smiling apologetically at them. 

When he bursts through the bathroom door, it’s already apparent you're not alone. You can hear snorting coming from the bathroom stall with the baby changing table in it. You don’t care, you wouldn’t have followed this guy in here if you were the modest type. Besides, if anyone comes in, Palmer has a foolproof plan. It’s called yelling “get the fuck out” in the general direction of the door. 

He puts his hands on the backs of your thighs to hoist you onto the surprisingly clean counter, right before smashing his lips into yours like an absolute maniac. It feels like he’s trying to devour you, the way his mouth moves against your. Sloppy, uncoordinated, and lots of biting, but that’s what makes it so good. You moan into his mouth while he shoves his tongue in yours, and he tastes like cigarette smoke and shitty beer. 

He shoves his hands underneath your shirt and the cheap mesh beneath it. He lifts his shin to nudge your legs further apart so he can nestle himself inside, and that’s definitely his erection you can feel against your crotch. Your miniskirt has pretty much ridden up past the point of usefulness. 

Palmer kisses along your jaw while he gropes at your chest harshly, stopping to bite your earlobe. 

“My name is Palmer. ‘Case you need somethin’ to scream, pretty girl,” he says, quietly enough to be private but loud enough to reach you through the ever-present thump of music outside the door. You murmur out your own name, and the punk shoves one of his hands down to your clothed cunt, instantly creating a pressure against you that has you trying to close your legs, but his hips are in the way. He smirks into your skin as he feels your thighs around him. 

“What a cute name,” he croons, “I can get into it.”

His wandering hands are on their way, reaching around to your ass, grabbing and shoving you further against him so he can grind the tent in his pants harder into you. He groans as he feels the softness and warmth of you through his jeans, lathing his tongue against your neck to sooth all of his biting. He has to strain to hear you, your sounds are quiet and he can tell without even looking that you’re biting your lip. But what sounds you are making cause his dick to twitch like nothing else. For once, he wishes they’d turn the music down, but since he knows they won’t, he’ll just have to make you cry louder. 

“How much prep d’ya need, babe?” He asks as he parts from your neck, and you put your arms around his neck, fingers carding through his mohawk. You look up at his smug face, ready to make him destroy you. 

“I’ll be ok, I just want you in me, Palmer,” you coo, not missing the twitch in his brow and his cock when you do it. 

“Then you’re gonna get exactly what you want, baby,” he groans, prying his body away from yours to undo his pants, and he smirks when he looks down, before breaking into a straight up grin, laughing under his breath. Your eyes follow his and you feel a little mortified when you see the wet spot you’ve left on his torn-up jeans. Your face heats up a little, and he likes how it looks on you. 

“Oh man, I’m, uh— sorry. Sorry about that,” you mumble apologetically, hoping it hasn’t totally turned him off. He laughs again. 

“You kidding? I’m wearing this like a badge of honor. Dunno if I’ll ever wash these jeans again,” he says in a sort of mock-dreaminess, and you crinkle your nose at him. 

“Gross.”

“Call me whatever you want, doll, you can’t deny that you like it,” _that you like_ **_me_ **, he thinks, “I’ve got the proof right here.”

“Stop teasing and fuck me, please? Please, Palmer?” Fuck, he just met you ten minutes ago and it seems like you already know exactly how to get him dangerously horny. Saying ‘fuck me’, well, that’s one thing. But saying _please_ ? _Please, Palmer,_ no less? Introducing himself to you was probably the best decision he’d ever made in his life. Maybe taking you to this bathroom. Hell, maybe deciding to get out of bed and go to this shitty show instead of laying around smoking all night. He didn’t get lucky so much at these things, especially not with girls who were both fully conscious and not about to throw up. But with you, he’d won the absolute jackpot. 

He wrenches open his belt and undoes his pants, pulling down his boxers without a second thought. His cock lands hot and heavy against you, and he groans, rutting against you for a few precious moments. He doesn’t miss the way your eyes light up a little when you see he’s pierced there too— Prince Albert and jacob’s ladder. Then he hurriedly digs through the pockets in his vest, desperately hoping he left a condom somewhere in there, and that it didn’t go through the wash. 

He smiles triumphantly when he pulls out the foil packet, putting one edge between his teeth while he rips it open. He fleetingly wonders if you’d let him fuck you raw, but it’s already open and it’s better to be safe anyways. You seemed like the kind of girl who’d insist he wear one anyways, and considering the venue, he couldn’t blame you. 

He nudges himself against your clothed mound, creating your first simultaneous moans. He likes how you and him sound together. He quickly rolls on the condom with surprising ease, considering he’s way out of practice. 

Palmer slides the bridge of your panties to the side, and you’re grateful for it, because you kind of don’t want the bare skin of your ass against this counter. The punk marvels at your cunt for a little while, spreading your labia with his fingers, circling your clit with his thumb. You’re about to tell him you can’t take anymore when you feel the blunt head of his dick against you as he slides himself along your folds. 

“Didn’t bring lube, hope you don’t mind if you use some’a yours,” he grits out delighting in the wet sounds he can just barely hear his cock make against your pussy. He doesn’t miss the way you whine when he prods at your opening. Your arms go tighter around his neck as he pushes in, pulling him closer until he’s completely leaning over you while you slouch against the mirror

“This what you wanted, babe? Is it everything you hoped for?” He coos. You’re practically shaking beneath him as he bottoms out. It’s a tight squeeze, but you don’t cry or make a pained face, so he’s hoping you’re ok. He feels kinda like an asshole for not fingering you or something, but his hands aren’t the cleanest and you seemed so damned eager. He decides to bite the bullet. 

“You good, sweetheart?” He asks quietly, like he’s not sure he’s really saying it. You huff quietly before pulling together a response. 

“Y-yeah, better than good—,” Palmer bucks his hips a little involuntarily, and you keen. “Oh _god_ —“ you gasp. He takes this as his cue, and starts up a brutal pace that has his balls slapping your ass while your legs wrap tighter around him. He would’ve taken his time— eased you into it— but he just doesn’t have the damn patience. The way you look, the way you sound, _fuck_ , the way you feel. He feels barely in control of himself. Like he’s under a spell. 

“You’re so fuckin’ _good_ , babe-- y’got no fuckin’ idea, fuck!”

He can’t stop his hands from roaming and grabbing, wanting to take every part of you that you’ll let him. He wrenches up your top so he can see your pretty tits bounce while he pounds your cunt. The way you pull his hair is divine, especially the way you clench your fist when he gives you a particularly bruising thrust. He’s not even on anything right now, but this is probably the hardest he’s ever fucked. It feels like he’s about to start knocking into your ribcage. And _Jesus Christ_ the way you call and moan and cry for him. His own personal songbird.

“Gorgeous, just fuckin’ _gorgeous_.”

When your walls start fluttering against him in that special way, Palmer wraps his arms around your waist and pulls you even closer— until you’re chest to chest— and he can swear he feels your heart beating through your breast. It’s a wonderful feeling. And the position adds the perfect pressure to your clit. Your lips meet again, before fueled just by urgency and lust, but now there’s something more to it. Like he’s about to go into battle and he might not come back. It’s corny as fuck, but for you, that’s what does it. 

“C’mon baby, cum, I wanna feel you fuckin’ _lose it_ from how good I’m givin’ it to you--”

When Palmer feels your cunt stroke him in your orgasm for the first time, not to mention how you cry out his name against his own lips, he knows he’s done for. Really, he was done for the moment he locked eyes with you from across the room. He cums, and finds himself surprisingly disappointed in how he can feel it filling the condom. Some dumb caveman part of his brain screams that it should be filling _you_ instead. Whatever. Next time. _Next time?_ Here’s hoping, he guesses.

Palmer collapses against you, feeling like he’s about to vomit up his heart. He presses weak kisses against the pulse on your neck before pulling back to admire how he’s managed to mark you up. Reluctantly and awkwardly, he pulls out, smug at how you whimper when he does it, and somewhat astonished by all the slick that’s accumulated on the counter beneath you. He pulls the bandana from around his neck, gently wiping at your sensitive cunt, which makes you shiver from the slight overstimulation. An image crosses his mind of you restrained, crying, pussy wet and raw, with his mouth between your thighs for the umpteenth time in a night. Filing that fantasy away for later.

He pulls the condom off uncomfortably, having the courtesy to tie it in a not, but not caring enough to pick it up after he misses when throwing it to the trash. Gross. He cleans himself up and puts himself away, stuffing the bandana in the back pocket of his jeans. He helps you off the counter, and to his delight and your mortification, you stumble like a newborn fawn.

He leads you with an arm around your waist out of the restroom. The crowd has thinned out somewhat, and you can tell the band’s energy is starting to falter. You decide to stick with Palmer for the rest of the night, leaning on him. You two are among the last in the crowd, and when the music stops you take it as your cue to leave. You both find yourselves lingering at the door, not sure what to say and not wanting to separate. You break the silence.

“Do you… I mean, would you wanna see each other again? Maybe?” you ask, obviously trying to sound casual. “I just-- t-that was really great.” He lights up.

“Yeah, yeah, I do. Fuck, I’m never gonna remember your number though--” Your face shows an epiphany, and you pull a marker from the inside of your jacket, and pull him towards you by the arm. He stumbles a little, and you pull the cap from the marker with your teeth, furrowing your brows while you scrawl the number onto his arm before putting the cap back on and releasing him. “Ah, thanks. I’ll call, I mean it,” he says, hand rubbing the back of his neck while he looks away, cheeks heating. “Wouldn’t miss out on an encore with all this,” He says, leaning back on his heels and motioning to all of you.

You catch him admiring his own work on your neck again, and your hand flies to your neck in realization.

“Fuck, I’m supposed to have lunch with my mom tomorrow. She’s gonna have a fuckin’ field day,” you murmur. Palmer’s other hand meets the first at the back of his neck, and his tongue pokes out of his mouth cutely while he bends his neck and concentrates. You hear a metallic click and the spiked choker around his neck comes loose. He waits a moment, looking in your eyes before proceeding, wrapping the collar around your neck, fastening the back while he continues to stare at you almost unnervingly. He strokes along the side when he's finished, stopping to hook a finger in the D-ring on the front, tugging just a little.

“Better?” he asks.

“Better,” you respond.

Your hands go up to your ear, taking out a colorful triangular stud earring, all primaries. You spear it through the lapel of his vest like a pin. You pull him down by the same lapels to kiss him goodnight before you walk off, and he’s left waving to you like an idiot. 

The entire time he walks home to his shitty apartment, peels off his clothes, wipes off his eye makeup, and gets ready for bed (because it’s one of those ‘I’m having sleep for dinner’ nights), he thinks about what he’ll say when he calls you at a human hour tomorrow. For the first time in a long time, while being (more or less) completely sober, he falls asleep smiling a little.

When he wakes up, he rolls over to find that your number’s smudged beyond legibility.

He never wrote it down.


	2. 15 Years

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Palmer never found you again, but you found him

Palmer doesn’t mind his life. He has an interesting job that pays pretty well, and it helps that he’s never minded the cold. He’s got a couple of friends, as well as plenty of people to antagonize. When he’s tired of that, there’s dozens of tapes and cassettes he has stockpiled, even though he misses the feeling of catching a movie he’s kind of interested in while it’s already halfway through on tv. His life isn’t as exciting as it once was. He’s not covered in leather, studs, and piercings, doesn’t spend all his free time blowing out his eardrums and potentially catching diseases. It may not be exciting, but it’s sustainable, and he’s gotten to that age where you prefer sustainable to exciting. 

You started at the Outpost like a month ago, but you’ve quickly become a part of their fucked up little commune. Palmer doesn’t know why, but you seem a little perplexed in his presence, almost on-edge. Like you have something you’re dying to say that you just can’t spit out. You ask him weird questions, but he’s never really been sensitive about personal information, so he doesn’t mind answering them. You’ve got some good taste in movies and music, so he doesn’t mind that you get a little funny at times. He’s sure people probably think the same of him. And besides, you’re cute enough to get away with murder, let alone a few out-of-left-field questions. 

Palmer thinks you look familiar, but can’t place you. Not an uncommon phenomenon for him, he met a lot of people in the 60s, and most definitely fried the fuck out of his brain with some less than legal habits. 

How do you feel about it? Well, Palmer stresses you the fuck out. His very existence. Yeah, you recognize him, he’s the guy who gave you the best sex of your life in the bathroom of a shitty punk show, then never called. You’re constantly left wondering if he remembers you and prefers not to bring it up, or if he has no memory of you. Your looks have changed quite a bit since then. At first, you weren’t even sure it was him, but the earring you gave him is still on that fraying denim vest. So you’ve been trying to figure out if he remembers as indirectly as possible. 

Regardless of whether or not he does, the chemistry hasn’t faded in all the time it’s been. You didn’t talk much during that first meeting, but you sure as hell felt something, and it came back with a vengeance when you met him again. He was different of course, but different in the ways that you were different, he’d changed in ways that suited your current self. More mellow, less prideful, but still funny and weird. It only made the longing and the wondering worse. 

You’ve left him to his own devices in your room while you quickly run to grab something you left in the rec room. Palmer doesn’t really have the strongest sense of boundaries, so you know he might snoop, but you can’t really think of any dark secrets that need hiding— not from him, anyway. So he absentmindedly sits at your desk, opening and closing drawers, testing pens and doodling in your notebooks, attempting to read your indecipherable charts and shorthand notes. When he opens the last drawer, a box catches his eye. It looks like it used to hold jewelry or something, it’s about the size of his hand, mostly flat. There’s no sign on it saying  _ don’t open! _ (As if that would’ve stopped him), so he slides the top off and puts it to the side. 

Inside are a bunch of photos. Some are Polaroids, others much older, some are just sections from rolls of film. They’re not in any particular order. Palmer gets to see you through all walks of life— he’d never really liked kids, but he’d readily admit you were probably the cutest, chubbiest baby he’d ever seen. Most he could tell had been taken by your family featuring events like Christmases and birthdays. But then there were a good chunk from when you were older that were taken by friends. There was even a candid or two where you looked pissed as all hell, one where you looked like a drowned rat and it had clearly been raining. 

Then comes the picture that changes everything. You’re lounging on a couch with friends, all of whom are wearing the same style as you. You’re in a black crop top and a scraped up, studded leather jacket, with a miniskirt and fishnets, chunky combat boots, and dark eye makeup for days. But most importantly, you’ve got a studded collar around your neck. One with a D-ring in the front. 

In that moment you come back to your room, the wooly cardigan you’d gone to retrieve under one arm. As he notices you enter, you notice the photo between his fingers. Suddenly it all made sense to him. 

“Why didn’t you say anything?” He questions, gentler than you thought he would, but still with an undercurrent of sternness that… excites you. 

“Why didn’t  _ you _ ?” You already knew the answer, really. 

“I— I hadn’t… made the connection,” he hesitates, sounding a little apologetic. It’s clear neither of you have any idea what comes next. 

“Do you… want to talk about it? Or would you rather forget it? I understand if you do. A lotta time has passed,” you babble. The rejection you’d felt when he hadn’t called you all those years ago is suddenly becoming fresh again. 

“I mean, I definitely don’t wanna  _ forget _ about it. But I dunno what to say, either.” You’d be offended if you didn’t know Palmer well enough to tell that he probably just forgot about a few key details. 

“You could… t-tell me why you never called,” you murmur, cursing at yourself for stuttering. You feel like a kid again, but try to act like you’re over it. Palmer doesn’t believe it for a second, and that’s what softens his expression so significantly, but widens his eyes. It’s starting to come back to him in much clearer detail. 

He remembers your number on his arm, ink smeared. How for weeks he went to every underground show he could shove his way into, hoping he’d see you again. After a couple months he started telling himself it was a lost cause, and yet he’d still find himself scanning the crowd when he went to concerts. Your face had gotten fuzzy over time, he’d never had a good memory and the drugs certainly hadn’t helped, but you’d remained a fantasy in his mind. Until, ironically, you’d been replaced as the object of his infatuation by yourself. Palmer drags his hands over his face in exhaustion at the memory, even more exhausted by the fact that he knows it’s going to sound like complete bullshit coming from him. 

“Didn’t write down your number, just never thought of it. When I woke up the next morning, wasn’t much more than some smears on my arm. Couldn’t read it,” he explains, rather shamefully. When he sees your face at his explanation, this little  _ oh _ you make, he can tell what you’re thinking. That he’s just trying to spare your feelings. And it makes him  _ panic _ . 

The shock of him grabbing your wrist makes you look up from your lap and right at his face. He can’t meet your eyes, but he takes your hand in his and strokes his thumb over your palm. 

“Looked for ya. Promise I did. Went to every show I heard about for months, t’see if I could find you. Didn’t know your last name, where you were from-- couldn’t look you up,” he trails, somewhat avoiding your gaze. “I-I really wanted to see you again. When I went to bed that night, thinkin’ of what I’d say on the phone the next day… I was happier than I’d been in a long fuckin’ time.” You hum in acknowledgement. His shoulders fall and his head quirks to the side as he chews his bottom lip.

You get up, and Palmer’s heart quickens as he fears you’ll leave and slam the door (even though this is  _ your _ room). You take a turn and open your wardrobe, squatting down to dig through the bottom of it. God, your ass still looks great. One of his biggest regrets from that night was not being able to get a good look at it while he fucked you.

With your socks now decorating the floor, you walk back to Palmer with something cradled in your hands. The leather is cracked, some of the studs have popped off, but he’d recognize that cheap thing anywhere. Still had the D-ring, too.

_ Good. Cause you’re gonna need it. _

**Author's Note:**

> no one asked but you're welcome.  
> Me and my friend.... we been talking a lot about how Palmer definitely had a punk phase and a mohawk. And I can't resist a shitty punk boy.


End file.
